UC-NRLF 


B    3    575    flD3 


EARLY  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  HAY 


A  POET 
EXILE 


EARLY  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  HAY 


Edited  by  Caroline  Ticknor 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

MDCCCCX 


COPYRIGHT,     1910, 

BY    HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


NOTE 

For  permission  to  print  the  letters  and  poems  in  this 
volume  thanks  are  due  to  Mrs.  John  Hay.  The 
frontispiece  is  an  etching  by  Sidney  L.  Smith  from 
a  photograph  of  John  Hay  taken  about  1 860. 


ft  4  /.. 


€/ 


A  Poet  in 


JOHN  HAY  was  born  a  poet ;  he  achieved 
fame  as  statesman,  diplomat,  and  man-of- 
letters.  And  because  of  this  manifold  achieve 
ment  there  was  vouchsafed  him  little  leisure 
or  opportunity  for  the  pursuit  of  the  poetic 
muse  that  had  smiled  on  him  at  his  birth. 

Too  many  honors  are  not  easy  to  reconcile 
with  the  exactments  of  a  goddess  who  de 
mands  one's  sole  allegiance,  and  so  the  poet's 
over-generous  endowment,  which  came  to 
him  both  from  within  and  from  without,  forced 
him,  if  not  to  turn  his  back  upon  his  muse, 
at  least  to  consign  her  to  a  secluded  niche. 
"  To  him  the  parting  of  the  ways  came  early ; 
and  what  was  there  in  our  literary  atmosphere 


CO 

and  opportunity  sixty  years  ago,  to  make  po 
etry  the  vocation  of  any  thorough  trained, 
aspiring,  resolute  man  ? " 

It  was  with  longing  and  regret  that  John 
Hay  turned  away  from  that  poetic  muse,  who 
would  have  claimed  him  for  her  own.  "  The 
Nation  called  for  workers " ;  the  call  was 
sounded  by  the  voice  of  Lincoln.  John  Hay, 
the  man  of  action,  answered,  and  the  poet 
John  Hay  accepted  his  inevitable  banish 
ment. 

Yet  after  the  accomplishment  of  "daily 
tasks/'  the  poet  did  return  from  time  to  time 
to  sing,  and  for  these  "songs,"  though  they 
were  but  a  presage  of  what  might  have  been, 
we  must  be  grateful,  as  we  are  for  those  oner 
ous  "  tasks  "  so  faithfully  performed. 

Of  the  relation  of  his  public  service  to  his 
poetic  gift  Stedman  asserted  in  his  "  Poets  of 
America" :  — 

"John  Hay,  whose  writings  are  at  once 


CO 

fine  and  strong,  has  been  so  engrossed  by 
rare  experience  of « cities,  —  councils,  govern 
ments/  as  scarcely  to  have  done  full  justice 
to  his  sterling  gifts.  With  his  taste,  mental 
vigor,  and  mastery  of  style,  he  may  well  be 
taken  to  task  for  neglecting  a  faculty  excep 
tionally  his  own.  The  uncompromising  dialect 
pieces,  which  made  a  hit  as  easily  as  they  were 
thrown  off,  are  the  mere  excess  of  his  pathos 
and  humor.  Such  poetry  as  the  blank-verse 
impromptu  on  Liberty  shows  the  higher  worth 
of  a  man  who  should  rise  above  indifference, 
and  the  hindrance  of  his  mood,  and  in  these 
spiritless  times  take  up  the  lyre  again,  not  fit 
fully  touch  the  strings." 

But  John  Hay  was  destined  to  touch  the 
strings  no  more  than  fitfully,  for  as  a  man  of 
action  he  must  be  ever  in  the  saddle,  and  the 
reiterated  order  to  "  ride  abroad  "  was  one  not 
to  be  disregarded.  And  so  the  poet,  early  ban 
ished  from  the  Elysian  fields  that  beckoned 


CO 

so  alluringly,  remained  in  exile  until  the  end, 
with  how  many  fair  songs  unsung ! 

Had  the  man  of  action  lived  less  fully  and 
richly,  out  in  the  open,  had  he  been  less  suc 
cessful,  worked  less  assiduously,  the  poet 
might  have  come  into  his  own ;  he  might  have 
realized  those  early  aspirations  that  were  his 
birthright,  those  that  he  cherished  in  his  col 
lege  days  when  he  was  chosen  class-poet  at 
Brown  University. 

One  views  with  interest  the  boyish  picture 
of  the  slender  youth  as  he  appeared  to  his 
associates  at  twenty  years  of  age ;  it  is  a  sen 
sitive  and  thoughtful  face,  and  viewing  it,  one 
is  disposed  to  question  if  this  immature  strip 
ling  can  be  the  brilliant  young  graduate  with 
exceptional  gifts  and  exalted  literary  ideals  ? 
Beside  this  early  picture  of  John  Hay,  as  he 
appeared  to  others,  it  may  be  edifying  to  place 
a  second  portrait,  drawn  by  himself  just  at  the 


CO 

close  of  his  college  career,  which  shows  the 
subject  in  a  light  that  reveals  the  maturity  of 
his  thought,  and  the  depth  and  breadth  of  his 
intellectual  development. 

This  characteristic  portrait  has  been  long 
hidden  away  in  a  small  packet  of  old  letters 
tied  with  a  faded  ribbon,  and  carefully  pre 
served  for  nearly  forty  years  by  her  to  whom 
they  were  addressed.  And  now  more  than  a 
decade  has  elapsed  since  the  departure  of  the 
recipient,  who  treasured  the  slim  packet  both 
for  the  writer's  sake,  and  for  the  wealth  of 
memories  of  her  own  youth  which  its  contents 
evoked. 

Miss  Nora  Perry,  to  whom  these  letters 
were  addressed,  was  one  of  the  leading  spirits 
in  that  artistic  and  literary  coterie  in  Provi 
dence,  Rhode  Island,  which  grouped  itself 
about  the  charming  Mrs.  Whitman,  who  came 
so  near  to  linking  her  fortunes  with  those  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


CO 

His  days  at  Brown  University  were  draw 
ing  to  a  close  when  John  Hay,  who  ranked 
among  the  brightest  of  the  college  men,  was 
introduced  into  this  small  and  charmed  circle, 
which  appealed  strongly  to  his  active  intellect 
and  did  much  to  strengthen  his  literary  aspira 
tions.  These  aspirations  were  above  all  poeti 
cal,  and  to  these,  the  poetic  gift  of  Mrs.  Whit 
man,  and  that  of  Miss  Perry,  contributed  not 
a  little,  while  their  friendly  sympathy  and 
emphatic  personalities  made  a  forcible  im 
pression  upon  the  modest  youth,  who  was 
wearing  the  laurels  of  class-poet.  This  young 
man,  with  his  boundless  enthusiasm  and  his 
love  of  the  beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  re 
sponded  with  all  his  characteristic  ardor  to 
the  stimulating  influence  of  those  brilliant 
women  and  clever  men  who  frequented  the 
cultured  gatherings  of  which  Mrs.  Whitman 
was  invariably  the  central  figure. 

At  this  time  Miss  Perry,  who  was  a  few 


CO 

years  older  than  Mr.  Hay,  had  already  won 
fame  for  herself  as  a  poet  and  writer  of  short 
stories,  having  captured  the  public  by  that 
most  popular  of  her  poetic  productions  which 
opens  with  the  familiar  lines  :  — 

:  '  Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in ; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within." 

In  later  years  this  poem,  in  company  with 
"After  the  Ball/'  another  of  her  popular  suc 
cesses,  became  the  writer's  bete  noir,  so  thor 
oughly  did  she  weary  of  being  hailed  as  their 
author,  an  experience  shared  by  many  poets 
who  have  tried  vainly  to  focus  the  attention  of 
their  public  upon  what  they  consider  their 
best  work.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  suf 
fered  constantly  from  popular  enthusiasm  for 


his  "Undiscovered  Country/'  as  did  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich  in  regard  to  "Baby  Bell/' 

Although  not  favored  with  any  especial 
beauty  of  feature,  Miss  Perry  in  her  youth 
undoubtedly  possessed  many  personal  attrac 
tions.  Her  figure  was  fine,  her  complexion 
marvellous,  her  eyes  a  deep  blue,  and  her 
golden  hair,  which  was  her  particular  glory, 
was  long,  wavy,  and  very  beautiful. 

Bright,  vivacious,  and  always  clever  at  rep 
artee  she  was  hailed  as  an  acquisition  at  every 
gathering,  and  in  later  years,  when  she  made 
her  home  in  Boston,  she  was  conspicuous  at 
the  literary  receptions  of  Mrs.  Sargent  for  her 
wit,  gaiety,  and  the  fearless  expression  of 
her  convictions.  Miss  Perry  was  incapable  of 
feigning  an  interest  she  did  not  feel,  and  that 
which  she  did  experience  was  so  genuine  and 
vital  that  it  was  something  she  never  dreamed 
of  simulating ;  her  friendship  was  a  very  live 
and  potent  factor  to  those  intimately  acquainted 


CO 

with  her,  to  whom  she  brought  the  inspiration 
which  springs  from  a  keen  grasp  of  truth,  an 
enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful,  and  a  just  appre 
ciation  of  the  relative  values  in  life.  She  formed 
her  own  opinions  and  uttered  them  frankly, 
relying  less  than  do  most  people  upon  the 
judgment  of  others.  Intensely  loyal  to  her 
friends,  she  was  tireless  in  her  endeavors  to  be 
of  service  to  them,  and  her  quickness  of  tem 
perament  tolerated  no  slights  or  derogatory 
statements  which  might  be  directed  towards 
them. 

Miss  Perry  numbered  among  her  intimate 
friends  Whittier,  Wendell  Phillips,  George 
William  Curtis,  and  many  other  eminent  men, 
who  appreciated  her  unique  personality  and 
unusual  gifts.  Her  friendship  with  Whittier 
may  be  particularly  emphasized,  for  she  pos 
sessed  his  love  and  confidence  to  a  rare  de 
gree,  and  the  bond  of  intimacy  which  extended 
over  many  years  was  a  very  strong  one.  The 


serious  poet  exchanged  jests  with  her,  told 
her  stories,  and  delighted  in  the  gay  and  auda 
cious  speeches  which  she  alone  would  have 
dared  to  venture.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  of  Whit- 
tier's  friends  were  vouchsafed  quite  the  same 
ingenuous  good-comradeship  as  that  bestowed 
upon  the  flippant  "Nora,"  beneath  whose  flip 
pancy  the  Quaker  Poet  discerned  the  same 
directness  and  sincerity  which  characterized 
his  own  mental  standpoint.  With  Wendell 
Phillips,  who  was  also  a  warm  friend,  she 
enjoyed  the  same  spontaneity  of  intercourse 
and  frank  good-fellowship. 

Her  friendship  with  John  Hay,  formed  a 
short  time  before  the  close  of  his  college  days, 
awakened  an  enthusiastic  response  in  the 
young  man,  whose  own  poetic  nature  readily 
revealed  itself  under  the  warmth  of  her  sym 
pathetic  interest.  Her  commendation  of  his 
verse,  her  willingness  to  read  him  her  own 
forthcoming  poems,  and  to  discuss  with  him 


her  literary  ideals,  were  a  keen  source  of  grati 
fication  to  the  young  collegiate,  who  was  about 
to  plunge  into  the  commercial  atmosphere  of 
a  western  life.  In  the  first  days  which  ensued 
after  his  return  to  his  home  in  Warsaw,  Illi 
nois,  he  felt  sharply  the  contrast  in  the  con 
ditions  about  him  to  those  which  he  had  found 
so  inspiring  in  Providence. 

His  opening  letter  to  Miss  Perry  refers,  a 
bit  mournfully,  to  a  "  happier  state  of  exist 
ence,  "  from  which  he  sighs  to  think  that  he 
is  now  banished.  It  also  voices  his  admiration 
for  Mrs.  Whitman,  of  whom  he  speaks  in 
nearly  all  of  his  communications,  and  of  his 
delightful  memories  of  the  hours  spent  in  her 
drawing-room. 

Warsaw,  III. 
Aug.  30th  (1858). 

However  much  you  may  have  wondered, 
Miss  Perry,  at  not  receiving  an  answer  to  the 


note  you  so  kindly  sent  me  in  Providence,  your 
surprise  will  probably  be  much  greater  upon  re 
ceiving  this  — for  your  own  experience  of  the 
West  has  probably  taught  you  how  unstable  are 
all  promises  made  by  faithless  nomads  of  the 
prairies,  and  how  readily  all  their  ties  and  asso 
ciations  formed  in  the  East  are  dissolved  by  the 
air  of  Illinois.  It  is  probably  too  late  for  me  to 
begin  to  account  for  a  neglect  which  seems  at  best 
unaccountable,  but  I  will  try  to  absolve  my  own 
conscience,  and  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  your 
interest  in  the  matter  is  sufficient  to  cause  you  to 
demand  an  elaborate  explanation.  Being  absent 
from  the  city  when  your  note  was  written,  I  did 
not  receive  it  until  I  was  on  the  point  of  depart 
ure,  and  the  necessary  business  which  I  had  to 
transact  occupied  my  time  so  fully  that  I  could 
neither  allow  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon 
you,  nor  of  preparing  that  copy  of  verses  which 
you  flatter  me  by  requesting.  Ever  since  that,  I 
have  been  on  my  homeward  journey,  delaying  at 


several  points,  until  now  the  fogs  of  September 
have  come  before  their  time  to  give  me  a  chilling 
welcome  to  my  home.  But  now  that  my  journey 
is  finished,  and  the  noise  and  bustle  that  banished 
thought  during  its  progress  is  gone,  my  mind  has 
leisure  to  travel  back  to  the  "good  bye  lande" 
that  I  have  left,  and  I  am  willing  to  turn  away 
from  the  familiar  faces  that  I  meet  in  the  streets 
of  Warsaw  and  go  to  my  room  to  converse  with 
shadows.  Tou  may  smile  at  that  expression,  but 
the  lady  whom  I  now  honor  myself  by  addressing 
is  only  a  shadow  to  me,  however  pleasant  a  re 
ality  she  may  be  to  others  who  are  blest  with  her 
society. 

And  thus  it  is  that  I  hasten  to  fulfill  a  promise 
made  in  a  happier  state  of  existence,  and  connect 
myself  by  a  bond,  however  slight,  to  one  whom  I 
hope  you  will  permit  me  to  call  a  friend,  none 
the  less  valued  because  so  recent.  And  if  I  may 
beg  a  reward,  not  just  but  generous,  may  I  ask 
you  to  send  me  one  of  those  charming  lyrics, 


which  cost  you  so  little,  and  which  have  the  sil 
very  music  and  swing  and  sparkle,  because  they 
are  yours  simply,  and  because  you  are  content  to 
sing  them  as  you  heard  them  in  Dreamland  with 
out  impertinent  alteration.  Only  my  thanks  can 
repay  you. 

I  was  exceedingly  disappointed  at  not  being 
able  to  see  Mrs.  Whitman  before  I  left  Provi 
dence.  I  delayed  calling  upon  her  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  hope  the  explanation  which  I  have  sent  will 
be  sufficient  to  excuse  me.  One  of  the  most  valued 
of  the  treasures  that  I  have  brought  out  to  glad 
den  the  solitude  of  a  western  winter  is  the  mem 
ory  of  an  evening  that  I  spent  at  her  house  this 
summer,  and  I  shall  count  it  the  heaviest  of  mis 
fortunes  to  lose  all  hope  of  future  intercourse 
with  a  spirit  so  exalted,  whose  influence  is  inevit 
ably  refining  upon  even  the  humblest  minds 
which  are  brought  in  contact  with  it.  Trusting 
then  at  some  future  day  to  renew  an  acquaint 
ance  whose  beginning  has  been  so  delightful  to 


["3 

me,  and  hoping  that  the  interval  of  banishment 
may  not  be  altogether  silent, 
I  remain 

Tours  very  sincerely 

John  Hay. 


A  little  more  than  a  month  has  elapsed 
since  the  penning  of  his  first  letter,  when  he 
replies  to  one  of  Miss  Perry's  communica 
tions,  in  which  she  has  enclosed  some  of  her 
own  poetic  work.  In  regard  to  this,  he  speaks 
enthusiastically,  congratulating  himself,  as  in 
his  first  letter,  upon  the  bonds  of  friendship 
which  still  link  him  with  the  literary  coterie 
in  Providence,  where  he  had  found  true  appre 
ciation  and  sympathy.  He  proceeds  to  contrast 
his  life  in  the  West  with  that  left  behind,  and 
refers  to  the  copy  made  by  him  of  her  poem 
"  La  Papillon,"  which  he  encloses,  refusing 


her  request  for  something  of  his  own  on  the 
ground  that  it  is  not  worthy  to  travel  in  such 
superior  company. 


Warsaw, 
October  12,  1858. 

My  dear  Miss  Perry : 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  you  how  re 
joiced  I  was  at  receiving  your  very  kind  letter. 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  but  a  very  few 
times ,  but  with  the  quick  instinct  of  a  woman  and 
a  poet,  you  saw  how  susceptible  I  was  to  the  flat 
tery  of  those  I  esteemed.  So  you  can  judge  that 
I  was  more  than  delighted  with  your  letter,  and 
still  continue  to  read  it  with  unabated  pleasure. 
Even  though  I  know  myself  unworthy  of  the 
praise  you  so  kindly  give  me,  I  cannot  but  be 
pleased  that  you  consider  me  of  sufficient  import 
ance  to  flatter  me. 


Tet  while  I  read  your  letter,  I  could  not  but 
shrink  from  the  prospect  of  answering  it.  The 
very  fact  of  your  writing  to  me  proved  that  you 
had  an  opinion  of  my  powers  which  I  might 
vainly  strive  to  justify,  and  when  I  read  the 
poems  which  you  added,  I  was  still  more  embar 
rassed  in  view  of  my  situation.  I  despair  of  ever 
carrying  on  a  correspondence  on  terms  in  any  de 
gree  approaching  equality  with  one  whose  mental 
plane  is  so  far  above  my  own.  The  pieces  with 
which  you  honored  me  were  different  from  others 
of  yours  which  I  had  read  and  admired,  and  I 
wasjilled  with  a  delighted  surprise  on  beholding 
you  unwreath  from  your  brow  the  vine-leaf  of 
the  Bacchante  and  assume  with  equal  grace  the 
laurel  of  the  Pythoness.  I  could  only  read  them 
with  delight,  and  then  silently  wonder  how  such 
good  fortune  had  befallen  me. 

I  shall  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself  upon 
the  acquaintances  I  formed  during  the  last  few 
months  of  my  stay  in  Providence.  I  found  among 


them  the  objects  for  which  my  mind  had  always 
longed y  true  appreciation  and  sympathy.  It  is  to 
their  own  goodness  and  generosity  that  I  render 
all  the  kindness  which  I  met  with,  and  not  to  any 
qualities  of  my  own  ;for  it  is  the  highest  glory  of 
genius  to  be  quick  in  sympathy  and  prodigal  of 
praise.  But  now  when  I  am  removed  to  a  colder 
mental  atmosphere ,  and  the  hopes  and  aspirations 
that  gilded  the  gliding  hours  of  my  last  year  at 
college  are  fading  away,  I  still  can  console  my 
self  with  a  dream  of  the  possibilities  that  once 
were  mine,  and  soothe  my  soul  with  the  shadowy 
Might-have-been.  In  spite  of  the  praise  which 
you  continually  lavish  upon  the  West,  I  must  re 
spectfully  assert  that  I  find  only  a  dreary  waste 
of  heartless  materialism,  where  great  and  heroic 
qualities  may  indeed  bully  their  way  up  into  the 
glare,  but  the  flowers  of  existence  inevitably  droop 
and  wither.  So  in  time  I  shall  change.  I  shall 
turn  from  "  the  rose  and  the  rainbow  "  to  corner- 
lots  and  tax-titles,  and  a  few  years  will  find  my 


eye  not  rolling  in  a  fine  frenzy,  but  steadily  fixed 
on  the  pole-star  of  humanity,  $  / 

But  I  am  not  yet  so  far  degraded  that  I  can 
not  love  poetry  and  worship  a  poet.  So  let  me 
implore  you  to  ask  a  favor  of  me  as  often  as  you 
possibly  can  —  whatever  it  is,  it  is  granted  as 
soon  as  asked,  if  you  will  only  acknowledge  it  as 
you  did  the  last.  If  you  will  so  far  favor me  your 
letters  will  be  a  thread  of  gold  woven  into  the 
dusky  texture  of  a  western  life. 

With  unalloyed  pleasure  I  copy  that  delicious 
"  La  Papillon"  but  are  you  not  ashamed  of  your 
unnatural  neglect?  I  would  take  the  bright  wan 
derer  and  claim  it  for  my  own  if  I  dared.  But  it 
would  look  in  my  household  like  the  last  hope  of 
Persia  in  the  hovel  of  a  cobbler  of  Bagdad. 

I  would  have  bored  you  with  something  of 
mine,  but  it  would  not  dare  to  travel  in  company 
with«LaPapillon" 

Will  you,  in  mercy,  write  to  me  again  ?  If  it 
were  not  so  brazen  I  would  beg  to  see  another  of 


00] 

those  new  poems  from  which  you  selected  that 
magnificent  battle-piece.  Why  did  you  not  give 
a  name  to  the  second  poem  ?  It  has  too  much 
spiritual  beauty  to  be  called  Anacreontic.  Tou 
ask  me  to  name  the  former.  What  do  you  think 
of"Upharsin"? 

I  have  run  myself  into  a  corner  and  will  now 

close. 

Tours  very  truly, 

John  Hay. 

I  am  very  anxiously  awaiting  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Whitman.   Is  she  in  Providence? 


A  few  months  later,  in  a  letter  throughout 
which  runs  a  vein  of  depression  mingled  with 
the  writer's  ever  sparkling  touches  of  humor, 
Mr.  Hay  again  eulogizes  Providence,  and  re 
calls  the  joys  of  his  college  life,  contrasting 
his  festive  student  days  with  the  gross  dissi- 


[>  3 

pation  practised  by  the  youth  of  his  western 
town.  He  voices  his  attitude  towards  his  sur 
roundings,  which  are  so  wholly  out  of  har 
mony  with  his  own  trend  of  thought,  and 
literary  and  aesthetic  tastes.  The  writer  en 
closes  two  poems  which  have  presumedly 
never  appeared  in  print,  and  which  have,  for 
fifty  years,  lain  hidden  away  in  the  packet  of 
old  letters. 


Warsaw, 
January  2nd,  1859. 

Let  me  hope,  JVora,  that  your  Christmas  was 
merrier  than  mine.  Whatever  be  your  fortune, 
you  are  happy  in  yourself  and  in  your  friends. 
Tou  have  the  poetic  soul  that  can  idealize  com 
mon  things  till  they  stand  before  you  in  trans 
figured  vitality.  Permit  me  to  say  also  that  you 
have  what  is  better  than  all  poetry,  the  warm 


on 

and  catholic  love  of  a  woman  for  everything  that 
is  beautiful  or  good.  The  world  must  be  very  fair 
as  seen  through  the  rosy  atmosphere  of  luxuriant 
youth  and  maidenhood.  Memory  paints  warm 
pictures  of  the  past,  to  adorn  the  gay  revels  of 
the  present,  and  the  mind  goes  a-gypsying  into 
the  future.  Tou  are  much  to  blame  if  you  are  not 
happy,  lighted  through  pleasant  places  by  the 
soul  of  a  poet, 

1  '  Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  youth  and  of  May, 
A  passionate  ballad,  gallant  and  gay.  '  ' 


ou  loved  Providence  as  I  do  you  would 
congratulate  yourself  hourly  upon  your  lot.  I  turn 
my  eyes  eastward,  like  an  Islamite,  when  I  feel 
prayerful.  The  city  of  Wayland,  and  Williams 
that  smiles  upon  its  beauty  glassed  in  the  still 
mirror  of  the  Narragansett  waves,  is  shrined  in 
my  memory  as  a  far-off  mystical  Eden  where  the 
women  were  lovely  and  spirituelle,  and  the  men 


were  jolly  and  brave ;  where  I  used  to  haunt  the 
rooms  of  the  Athenceum,  made  holy  by  the  pres 
ence  of  the  royal  dead;  where  I  used  to  pay  fur 
tive  visits  to  Forbes'  forbidden  mysteries  ( peace 
to  its  ashes ! ) ,  where  I  used  to  eat  Hasheesh  and 
dream  dreams.  My  life  will  not  be  utterly  deso 
late  while  memory  is  left  me,  and  while  I  may 
recall  the  free  pleasures  of  the  student-time ; 
pleasures  in  which  there  was  no  taint  of  selfish 
ness  commingled)  and  which  lost  half  their  sin  in 
losing  all  their  grossness.  Day  is  not  more  dif 
ferent  from  night  than  they  were  from  the  wild 
excesses  of  the  youth  of  this  barbarous  West. 

Yet  to  this  field  I  am  called,  and  I  accept 
calmly,  if  not  joyfully,  the  challenge  of  fate. 
From  present  indications  my  sojourn  in  this 
"wale  of  tears,"  as  the  elder  Wetter  pathetically 
styles  it,  will  not  be  very  protracted.  I  can  stand 
it  for  a  few  years,  I  suppose.  My  father,  with 
more  ambition  and  higher  ideals  than  I,  has  dwelt 
and  labored  here  a  lifetime,  and  even  this  winter 


does  not  despair  of  creating  an  interest  in  things 
intellectual  among  the  great  unshorn  of  the  prai 
ries.  I  am  not  suited  for  a  reformer.  I  do  not 
like  to  meddle  with  moral  ills.  I  love  comfort 
able  people.  I  prefer,  for  my  friends,  men  who 
can  read.  In  the  words  of  the  poet  Pigwiggen, 
whom  Neal  has  immortalized  in  the  "  Charcoal 
Sketches,"  "I  know  I'm  a  genus,  'cause  I  hate 
work  worse  'n  thunder,  and  would  like  to  cut  my 
throat  —  only  it  hurts"  When  you  reflect  how 
unsuitable  such  sentiments  are  to  the  busy  life  of 
the  Mississippi  Valley,  you  may  imagine  then 
what  an  overhauling  my  character  must  receive 
—  at  my  own  hands,  too. 

There  is,  as  yet,  no  room  in  the  West  for  a 
genius.  I  mean,  of  course,  of  the  Pigwiggen 
model.  Impudence  and  rascality  are  the  talis 
mans  that  open  the  gates  of  preferment.  I  am  a 
Westerner.  The  influences  of  civilization  galvan 
ized  me  for  a  time  into  a  feverish  life,  but  they 
will  vanish  before  this  death-in-life  of  solitude. 


/  chose  it,  however,  and  my  blood  is  on  my  own 
head. 

I  received  Mrs.  Whitman's  very  kind  letter  a 
day  or  two  ago.  To  have  friends,  esteemed  like 
her,  welcome  me  so  cordially  back  to  life  is  some 
thing  worth  being  sick  for.  I  will  seize  the  privi 
lege  of  writing  to  her  soon.  When  I  last  wrote 
I  promised  to  send  her  something  saved  from  the 
wreck  that  burnt  in  my  stove  last  winter.  But  I 
concluded  not  to  look  back,  and  so  will  request 
you  to  hand  her  the  enclosed  affair,  being  the 
only  fruit  of  so  many  months  of  exile.  If  you  can 
read  it,  look  upon  it,  not  with  justice  but  mercy. 
I  wrote  it  the  other  morning  because  I  felt  like  it, 
and  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  passable  or  exe 
crable.  I  add  another  somewhat  dissimilar.  lam 
at  once  flattered  and  grateful  for  the  favor  you 
conferred  upon  me  and  my  lines  at  the  Phalan 
stery.  I,  alas !  have  no  audience  out  of  my  own 
family  to  read  your  beautiful  poems  to,  but  they 
all  admire  them  equally  with  me. 


[26] 

I  send  a  little  piece  in  which  I  say  a  little, 
meaning  a  good  deal.  Boys  are  not  often  success 
ful  in  condensation.  Will  you  please  give  my  love 
to  the  Doctor. 

PARTED 

We  sailed  together  once  on  the  sea — 

In  the  blast  I  am  driving  now  alone. 

One  night  a  stranger  came  up  on  the  lee — 

The  morn  woke  clouded  and  thou  wert  gone. 

Joy  fill  his  sails  for  the  sake  of  thee 
While  I  sail  on  o'er  the  rainy  sea. 

Black  the  clouds  threaten.  My  heart  is  as  dark. 
(How  glad  was  the  sunlight  when  thou  wert  near.) 
But  I'll  trim  the  sails  of  my  lonely  bark, 
And  mock  the  wind  with  a  merry  cheer. 

For  a  storm  comes  out  of  the  lurid  lee 
And  night  comes  down  o'er  the  rainy  sea. 

[Written,  January,  1859.] 


This  little  poem  evidently  embodies  the 
writer's  longing  for  that  responsive  compan 
ionship  which  his  fellow  poet  had  supplied, 
and  which  in  his  western  environment  he 
sadly  missed.  He  offers  it  to  Miss  Perry  as 
a  personal  tribute  from  her  young  literary 
friend. 

The  verses  which  follow  are  quite  imper 
sonal  as  far  as  Miss  Perry  is  concerned ;  they 
reflect  the  writer's  own  mental  attitude,  re 
veal  something  of  the  spiritual  conflict  through 
which  he  was  then  passing,  and  voice  his 
doubts  and  fears  and  wonderments  regarding 
life,  death,  and  love. 


IN  THE  MIST 

"  As  flies  to  wanton  boys,  are  we  to  the  gods ; 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport." — LEAR. 

Drearily  sweeping  above  the  dim  plain, 
Wanders  the  rain ; 


Mad  fly  the  shadows,  and  eager  behind, 

Chases  the  wind ; 

And  the  mist  of  the  evening  dank,  dismal,  and  chill, 

Like  the  curse  of  a  father,  hangs  low  on  the  hill. 

Through  the  murk  air 

Wails  the  faint  voice  of  a  sullen  despair ; 

Solemn  and  slow, 

Over  my  head 

Flit  the  black  plumes  of  a  vanishing  crow, 

Till  in  the  thick  darkness  his  darkness  is  lost, 

Like  the  black-flitting  ghost 

Of  a  hate  that  is  dead. 

Dreary  the  sky ! 

Dreary  the  heath ! 

Why  should  we  shudder  to  slumber  or  die? 

Peaceful  is  death. 

Weary  the  strife 

Of  our  wintry  life ! 

Our  eyes  grow  dazed  with  the  staring  day, 

Our  brain  grows  crazed  with  the  limitless  rattle 

And  we  long  to  sink  down  from  the  sulphurous 

battle, 
And  steal  from  the  thunderous  tumult  away. 


[29] 

To  the  victor  the  palm ! 

To  the  wounded  the  balm ! 

Tearless  and  calm  in  the  grave  they  shall  sleep, 

Weary  and  worn  on  the  earth  we  shall  weep. 

But  ah !  Is  it  brave 

To  go  down  to  the  grave? 

When  the  heaven  laughs  aloud  in  its  infinite  glee, 

When  the  sunlight  is  sparkling  on  mountain  and  sea, 

When  every  day  has  its  silvery  tongue 

To  challenge  the  red-leaping  blood  of  the  young, 

Shall  we  steal  from  the  sunlight  so  golden  and  broad 

To  slumber  in  silence  beneath  the  cold  sod? 

And  the  cold  glare  of  Destiny's  pitiless  eyes 

Strikes  the  heart  with  a  stony  Medusean  chill. 

What  matter  our  curses?  What  matter  our  prayers? 

They  are  swallowed  above  by  the  thin  hungry  airs. 

God  has  given  us  the  world,  he  has  left  us  the  grave, 

He  is  too  good  to  love  us,  too  lofty  to  save. 

The  world  with  her  burden  of  woe  and  of  crime 

Rolls  on  through  the  twilight  of  gathering  years, 

While  she  twines  round  her  brow  the  dim  trophies 

of  time, 
And  joins  in  the  thunderous  chime  of  the  spheres. 


[30] 

No  wail  from  the  earth  breaks  the  calm  of  the  sky, 

Unheeded  we  live  and  unheeded  we  die. 

Then  why  should  we  sing  of  a  home  in  the  skies 

Or  mourn  in  the  dusk  of  the  spirit's  eclipse, 

When  a  pledge  of  joy  lurks  in  the  challenging  eyes 

And  the  love-dew  is  sparkling  on  budding  red  lips. 

Then  garland  the  bowl ! 

Let  the  shuddering  soul 

Here  stifle  the  voice  of  its  idle  alarms ! 

Let  doubt  sink  to  sleep 

In  oblivion  deep 

Within  the  white  joy  of  love's  sheltering  arms! 

Launch  the  boat !  Set  the  sails !  and  adown  the  still 

stream 

We  will  glide  with  the  mystical  float  of  a  dream. 
Ah,  vain  the  endeavor !  Along  the  dim  river 
The  voice  of  the  ages  low  whispers  "In  vain," 
Death  sits  at  the  helm,  and  shallop  forever 
Drives  into  the  night,  through  the  mist  and  the  rain. 

The  verses  which  follow  were  apparently 
enclosed  with  the  ones  above,  and  as  they  were 


without  any  heading,  it  is  likely  that  they  were 
intended  as  a  second  part  of  the  same  poem. 
The  unfinished  stanza  at  the  end  seems  to  in 
dicate  that  these  were  not  the  closing  lines  of 
the  poem,  which  were  doubtless  penned  upon 
an  additional  sheet  that  has  not  been  preserved. 


To  slumber  in  silence,  nor  feeling  nor  knowing 
That  the  breezes  are  out  and  the  roses  are  growing ! 
Is  it  well?  Is  it  well? 
The  living  are  mazed  and  the  dead  cannot  tell. 

Still  wails  the  mad  wind  through  the  shuddering 

vale, 

Still  hangs  the  white  mist  on  the  slope  of  the  hills, 
The  elm-leaves  upturned  in  the  shadows  grow  pale, 
And  the  peach  flowers  fall  in  the  wind's  dying  thrills. 
Not  alone  in  the  gloom  of  the  charnel  is  death, 
But  he  lurks  in  the  forest,  he  strives  in  the  trees, 
The  trembling  leaves  fall  at  his  withering  breath ; 
Flowers  sicken  and  die.  There  is  death  in  the  breeze. 
And  the  morning  will  come  in  its  splendor  and 


[32    J 

And  the  mist 

Will  be  kissed 

By  the  jolly  red  day, 

But  the  sky  of  the  east  will  be  dabbled  and  gory, 

And  the  night 

From  the  light 

Shall  fade  sickly  and  gray. 

And  when  the  fired  leaves  in  the  bright  sun  are 
dancing, 

And  the  wanton  hills  pant  in  the  joy  of  his  blaze, 

Full-freighted  with  fate  his  hot  arrows  are  glancing, 

And  death  in  high  carnival  laughs  in  his  rays. 

And  thus  while  the  earth  in  his  rapture  is  gleaming, 

Death's  thick-trailing  veils  of  malaria  rise, 

To  chill  the  warm  blushes  of  Nature's  sweet  dream 
ing, 

And  blot  the  white  bliss  that  transfigured  the  skies. 

Oh,  lurks  there  no  spot  in  the  waste  of  the  world, 
Where  the  black  shade  of  care  skulks  forever  away, 
Where  the  soul,  like  a  rose  with  its  petals  dim-furled, 
Shall  flush  in  warm  dreams  through  the  glimmering 
day? 


Does  there  bloom  in  the  bleak  desolation  no  spot 

Where  joy  dies  in  calm  and  the  spoiler  is  not? 

41  Ah,  yes! "  whispers  Youth,  and  his  merry  voice 

swells 

With  the  soul-drunken  music  of  sweet  marriage- 
bells. 

' '  Seek  not  for  a  heaven  in  the  cold  blue  above 
While  the  earth  blushes  red  with  the  roses  of  love. 
For  what  shall  awake  us  to  life's  vague  alarms 
When  lost  in  the  clinging  of  tender  white  arms? 
What  shade  flecks  the  blank  of  love's  fiery  bliss 
When  rosy  lips  melt  in  their  earliest  kiss, 
And  we  gaze  on  a  heaven  more  fair  than  the  skies 
Shrined  deep  in  the  azure  of  passionate  eyes  ? 
How  rich  the  wild  sunbeams  that  over  us  glimmer, 
How  leaps  the  hot  heart  in  the  burst  of  its  pride, 
While  lapt  in  a  shimmer  that  ever  grows  dimmer, 
We  sail  with  the  sweep  of  the  rose-rippled  tide ! 
Soon  we  cease  sailing 
The  summer-lit  sea. 
For  us  is  the  wrailing, 
For  Death  is  the  glee ! 
Where'er  in  soft  dalliance  fond  lovers  play 


Death  glides  like  the  darkness  pursuing  the  day, 
Ever  wakeful  the  spectre  creeps  into  love's  bowers 
And  mingles  his  gall  with  the  slumbering  flowers. 
All  rudely  his  fingers  the  soft  arms  unclasp 
From  the  neck  that  was  thrilling  to  bliss  in  their 

grasp, 

He  hushes  low  laughter,  he  dims  the  fond  eyes 
And  stifles  the  bliss  of  the  maiden's  warm  sighs; 
And  on  the  sweet  lips,  the  bright  heaven  of  Love's 

prayer, 
He  will  riot  in  glee  while  they  rest  unaware. 

Oh,  God!  Oh,  our  Father!  Oh,  Mighty  to  save! 
As  thy  might,  so  thy  Love.  Is  there  love  in  the  grave? 

When  low  we  lie 
Death  can  but  kill, 
But  love  may  die 
Ere  the  heart  is  still. 

The  glory  vanishes  out  of  the  skies 
When  out  of  the  heart  its  true  Love  dies, 
The  thrill  of  joy,  the  laugh  of  mirth 
Die  away  from  the  waste  wide  earth, 


on 

And  the  heart  hangs  lone  like  a  desolate  lyre 
That  moans  forever  its  wildered  wail, 
And  pours  the  voice  of  its  vague  desire 
On  the  heedless  ear  of  the  mocking  gale. 

And  why  shall  we  struggle?  The  mist  will  not  rise 
Though  we  shout  till  the  echoes  die  faint  on  the  hill, 


Had  these  early  poems  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  their  author  "twenty  years  after "  their 
composition,  he,  with  his  fastidious  taste  in 
literary  matters,  would  doubtless  have  imme 
diately  consigned  them  to  the  scrap-basket, 
pronouncing  them  "effusive,"  "morbid,"  "im 
mature," —  and  certainly  unworthy  to  be  pre 
served  among  his  contributions  to  the  poetic 
world. 

,  Every  poet,  who  has  achieved  celebrity,  has 
suffered  from  the  frequent  unearthing  and  re 
printing  of  bits  of  his  early  work  that  he  would 


[36] 

fain  obliterate,  but  which  from  time  to  time 
reappear  to  torment  their  creator,  who  has 
long  since  outgrown  them.  And  it  is  truly  an 
unpardonable  offence  to  bring  forth,  as  if  it 
were  a  typical,  mature  production,  some  early 
piece  of  work,  snatched  from  its  context,  and 
robbed  of  its  extenuating  circumstances. 

But  it  is  quite  a  different  thing  to  study  the 
man  himself  through  certain  aspects  of  his 
early,  experimental  efforts.  This  is  true  in  re 
gard  to  these  examples  of  John  Hay's  youth 
ful  verse.  These  picture,  as  do  his  letters, 
penned  at  this  time,  an  interesting  phase  in  the 
writer's  development,  a  phase  through  which 
he  passed  just  before  entering  upon  his  active 
participation  in  the  great  struggle  that  con 
vulsed  the  land  in  1861. 

The  time  which  elapsed  between  John  Hay's 
graduation  from  Brown  University,  and  his 
acceptance  of  the  post  of  assistant  secretary 
to  Lincoln,  was  a  period  of  outward  calm  for 


the  young  collegiate  and  law  student,  but  of 
much  inward  conflict  and  unrest.  The  future 
thinker,  statesman,  diplomat,  and  man-of-let- 
ters  was  finding  himself,  and  in  the  process  he 
touched  the  very  depths  of  gloom  and  black 
ness  before  emerging  into  the  clear  sunlight 
of  serenity  and  poise. 

His  picture,  as  he  pens  it  for  us,  reveals  the 
writer  outwardly  gay  and  nonchalant,  ab 
sorbed  in  business  and  in  social  activities,  but 
inwardly  engaged  in  a  spiritual  conflict  which 
stirred  his  nature  to  its  very  foundation.  God, 
Life,  Death,  Immortality,  and  Love,  what  was 
his  attitude  towards  these  ?  What  his  beliefs 
concerning  them?  What  his  relationship  to 
each  ?  What  was  his  aim  in  life  ?  His  mission  ? 
And  what  was,  after  all,  his  true  vocation  ? 

Such  was  the  inward  questioning,  the  mental 
strife  which  was  going  on  in  the  soul  and  mind 
of  the  boyish  enthusiast,  who  was  to  be  the 
instrument  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  one  of  this 


[38] 

great  nation's  greatest  statesmen,  but  who  at 
heart  still  longed  to  be  above  all  else  a  poet. 

It  is  a  glimpse  of  such  a  struggle  that  is 
registered  in  these  early  letters  and  in  the  ac 
companying  verses,  which  must  be  viewed, 
not  as  the  poetry  of  John  Hay,  but  as  John 
Hay  at  21  ;  thoughtful,  sensitive,  idealistic, 
with  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  exquisite  taste  in 
things,  people,  and  thoughts,  and  a  remark 
able  command  of  his  own  mother  tongue. 

The  two  remaining  letters  are  penned  from 
Springfield,  Illinois;  the  one  in  May,  1859, 
and  the  other  almost  a  year  later. 

In  the  interim  Hay  had  left  Warsaw,  and 
after  a  brief  stay  at  Pittsfield  had  begun  the 
study  of  law  with  his  uncle,  Colonel  Milton 
Hay,  though  it  is  recorded  that  for  a  time  he 
seriously  considered  the  subject  of  studying 
for  the  ministry. 

At  Springfield  young  Hay  found  his  uncle 
in  the  turmoil  of  the  political  struggle  which 


was  to  lead  to  the  nomination  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  for  the  Presidency.  Milton  Hay's  as 
sociation  with  Lincoln  was  most  intimate,  and 
his  nephew  John  was  thrown  into  very  close 
relationship  with  the  latter;  his  appointment 
to  the  assistant-secretaryship  came  about  nat 
urally,  and  the  opening  of  the  conflict  found 
John  G.  Nicolay,  secretary  to  Lincoln,  assisted 
by  John  Hay. 


Springfield, 
May  15th,  1859. 

My  dear  Miss  Perry  : 

On  arriving  here  yesterday  I  was  no  less 
surprised  than  delighted  to  find  a  letter  from  you. 
As  it  has  pursued  rather  a  devious  and  lonesome 
course  in  following  me  through  three  weeks  of 
Ishmaelitish  wandering,  I  will  not  longer  delay 
an  answer,  especially  as  my  letter  brings  some- 


[40] 

thing  to  recommend  itself,  in  the  shape  of  the  en 
closed  beautiful  tribute  to  the  material  loveliness 
of  our  state,  and  the  sparkling  and  rippling  chimes 
which  follow  it.  It  is  very  amusing  for  me  to  be 
able  to  supply  from  my  jealously  hoarded  store, 
jewels  which  you  have  scattered  in  the  careless 
profusion  of  intellectual  wealth.  I  should  think 
of  mutiny  and  sullen  rebellion,  however,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  promise  you  make  of  future  restoration. 
It  may  seem  somewhat  strange  to  you,  Miss 
Perry,  that  I,  holding,  as  you  know  I  did,  the 
honor  of  a  correspondence  with  you  and  with 
Mrs.  Whitman  so  high,  and  regarding  it  as  so 
far  above  my  own  deserving,  should  have  availed 
myself  so  little  of  the  privilege  so  kindly  granted. 
Let  me  make  another  admission,  which  may  sur 
prise  you  still  more.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  last 
note  you  wrote  me,  in  which  your  goodness  of  he  art 
was  still  so  clearly  visible,  I  should  have  probably 
never  written  to  you  again  more  than  a  sad  ac 
knowledgement  of  former  kindness.  But  seeing 


your  handwriting  once  more  and  meeting  you  in 
spirit  again,  unites  in  a  manner  the  broken  links 
of  the  chain  that  binds  the  past  and  the  present. 
Let  me  request,  then,  the  privilege  of  a  reply,  and 
the  pleasure  of  a  continuance  of  the  correspond 
ence.  In  the  mean  time,  I  may  only  hint  the  rea 
son  of  my  silence. 

I  have  wandered  this  winter  in  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death.  All  the  universe,  God,  earth, 
and  heaven  have  been  to  me  but  vague  and  gloomy 
phantasms.  I  have  conversed  with  wild  imagin 
ings  in  the  gloom  of  the  forests.  I  have  sat  long 
hours  by  the  sandy  marge  of  my  magnificent  river, 
and  felt  the  awful  mystery  of  its  unending  flow, 
and  heard  an  infinite  lament  breathed  in  the  un 
quiet  murmur  of  its  whispering  ripples.  Never 
before  have  I  been  so  much  in  society.  Tet  into 
every  parlor  my  Daemon  has  pursued  me.  When 
the  air  has  been  fainting  with  prisoned  perfumes, 
when  every  spirit  thrilled  to  the  delicate  touch  of 
airy  harmonies,  ivhen  perfect  forms  moved  in  uni- 


son  with  perfect  music,  and  mocked  with  their  vo 
luptuous  grace  the  tortured  aspirations  of  poetry,  I 
have  felt,  coming  over  my  soul  colder  than  a  north 
ern  wind,  a  conviction  of  the  hideous  unreality 
of  all  that  moved  and  swayed  and  throbbed  be 
fore  me.  It  was  not  with  the  eye  of  a  bigot,  or 
the  diseased  perceptions  of  a  penitent  that  Hooked 
upon  such  scenes ;  it  was  with  what  seemed  to 
me 

Thus  far  I  wrote,  and  turned  over  the  page  and 
wrote  no  more  for  an  hour.  Tou  have  had  enough 
of  that  kind  of  agonized  confession,  have  n't  you  ? 
An  open  human  heart  is  not  a  pleasant  thing. 
I  wanted  only  to  tell  you  why  I  had  not  written. 
It  would  have  been  easier  to  say  it  was  simply  im 
possible. 

lam  now  at  work.  In  work  I  always  find  rest. 
A  strange  paradox —  but  true.  If  my  health  re 
turns,  I  do  not  question  but  that  I  shall  work  out 
of  these  shadows.  If  not,  there  is  a  cool  rest  under 


the  violets,  and  eternity  is  long  enough  to  make 
right  the  errors  and  deficiencies  of  time. 

Please  write  to  me  before  long.  I  should  not 
send  you  such  a  spasmodic  and  unfinished  thing 
as  this  —  but  you  want  that  article.  I  am  going 
to  join  a  spiritual  circle  soon.  I  am,  of  course ,  an 
unbeliever,  but  Mrs.  Whitman  has  taught  me  to 
respect  the  new  revelation,  if  not  to  trust  it.  How 
happy  I  should  have  been  under  other  circum 
stances  in  my  acquaintance  with  a  soul  so  pure 
and  high  as  hers.  Tell  her  something  for  me  that 
will  not  make  her  think  less  of  me,  and  believe  me, 
Tours  very  sincerely, 

John  Hay. 

I  wrote  to  O'Connor  a  long  time  ago,  and 
have  heard  nothing  from  him.  Is  he  still  in  Phil 
adelphia? 


[44] 

Springfield,  III. 
March  4,  1860. 

My  dear  Miss  Perry, 

I  cannot  adequately  tell  you  how  flat 
tered  I  was  on  receiving  the  evidence  which  you 
and  the  Doctor  sent  me  so  kindly,  that  I  was  not 
utterly  forgotten  by  those  I  can  never  forget.  I 
hope  you  may  never  be  placed  in  a  situation  where 
you  will  be  able  to  sympathize  with  my  present 
habitudes  of  mind,  or  appreciate  the  feelings  of 
grateful  delight  occasioned  by  a  kindness  like  your 
last. 

When  in  the  midst  of  my  laborious  and  in 
tensely  practical  studies,  the  current  of  my 
thoughts  is  changed  by  a  reminder  of  a  state  of 
existence  so  much  higher  than  mine,  I  feel  for  a 
moment  as  a  pilgrim  might  have  felt,  in  the  days 
when  angels  walked  with  men,  who,  lying  weary 
and  exhausted  with  his  toilsome  journey,  has 
heard  in  the  desert  silence  faint  hints  of  celestial 


on 

melody,  and  seen  the  desolate  sands  empurpled 
and  glorified  with  a  fleeting  flash  of  spiritual 
wings. 

The  splendor  fades ,  but  the  ripples  of  memory 
still  stir  the  stagnant  waters  of  the  soul,  and  life 
is  less  dreary  that  the  vision  has  come  and  gone. 

It  is  cowardly  in  me  to  cling  so  persistently  to 
a  life  which  is  past.  It  is  my  duty,  and  in  truth 
it  is  my  ultimate  intention  to  qualify  myself  for 
a  Western  Lawyer,  et  praeterea  nihil,  "  only  that 
and  nothing  more."  Along  the  path  of  my  future 
life,  short  tho*  it  be,  my  vision  runs  unchecked. 
JVb  devious  ways.  No  glimpses  of  sudden  splen 
dor  striking  athwart.  JVb  mysteries.  JVb  deep 
shadows,  save  those  in  my  own  soul,  for  I  expect 
prosperity,  speaking  after  the  manner  of  men. 
JVb  intense  lights  but  at  the  end.  So  my  life  lies. 
A  straight  path  —  on  both  sides  quiet  labor,  at 
the  end,  Death  and  Rest. 

Tet  though  I  know  all  this,  though  I  feel  that 
Illinois  and  Rhode  Island  are  entirely  antipa- 


[46] 

thetic  —  though  I  am  aware  that  thy  people  are 
not  my  people,  nor  thy  God  my  God,  I  cannot  shut 
my  friends  out  of  my  memory  or  annihilate  the 
pleasant  past.  I  cannot  help  being  delighted  to 
receive  a  letter  from  you,  and  to  know  that  the 
Doctor  sometimes  remembers  me.  When  I  read 
"After  the  Ball,"  and  when,  going  into  the 
State  House,  the  Secretary  of  State  said  to  me, 
"  Hay,  have  you  read  the  last  Atlantic?  there  is 
the  prettiest  poem  there  this  month  it  has  ever  pub 
lished,"  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  personal  pride 
that  I  had  heard  it  read,  alive  with  the  poet's 
voice  and  warm  from  the  poet's  heart. 

What  more  can  I  say  than  to  confess  that  my 
friends  are  necessary  to  me,  to  ask  you  to  give  my 
love  to  the  Doctor,  and  to  write  to  me  as  soon  as 
you  will.  How  glad  I  am  that  the  world  is  learn 
ing  to  love  Mrs.  Whitman  as  much  as  those  who 
have  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  revered  Priestess. 

John  Hay. 


on 

So  closes  the  last  letter  in  the  little  packet, 
tied  up  half-a-century  ago,  and  the  sensitive 
college  boy,  with  his  literary  aspirations  and 
poetic  ideals,  turns  to  follow  his  new  chief  in 
the  direction  of  the  "State  House,"  casting  a 
reluctant  glance  behind  him  at  his  alma  mater, 
and  at  the  loved  group  of  friends  in  Providence. 

In  the  light  of  John  Hay's  subsequent  ca 
reer  this  last  letter  is  of  special  interest,  setting 
forth  as  it  does  his  youthful  prophecy  in  regard 
to  the  dim  future  stretching  ahead  of  him. 

And  what  a  contrast  that  early  vision  pre 
sents  to  the  actual  unfolding  of  the  life  which 
was  to  be  the  writer's  portion ! 

John  Hay  longed  for  the  cultured  atmos 
phere  of  that  small  literary  circle  in  Provi 
dence  which  he  felt  he  had  once  for  all  relin 
quished,  and  dreamed  not  that  the  centres  of 
culture  the  wide  world  over  would  one  day 
beckon  him  to  their  holy  of  holies.  He  saw 
himself  a  hum-drum  western  lawyer,  and 


caught  no  glimpse  of  the  honored  associate  of 
leaders  in  the  land  which  he  was  destined  to 
become.  He  pictured  for  himself  "  no  devious 
ways,"  no  "sudden  splendor,"  yet  he  was 
bound  to  traverse  the  former  with  ease  and 
diplomatic  skill,  to  bear  the  latter  with  modest 
grace. 

There  were  indeed  "deep  shadows,"  and 
a  "prosperity"  transcending  youthful  hopes. 
And  finally,  « intense  lights  "  —  "at  the  end," 
yes,  here  only  too  truly  his  early  prophecy 
was  realized.  For  "at  the  end  "the  search 
lights  of  the  world  were  flashed  upon  him. 


Uft&ns 


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